З життя
Час для смутку, час для радості…
Час для суму і час для радості…
Вона впевнено вела автомобіль, об’їжджаючи великі калюжі, прямуючи до рідного села, до батьківського дому. Ще влітку вирішила провести тут відпустку, зібравши теплі та затишні речі: два пледи, піжаму, вовняні шкарпетки, книги, дорогий каву, якісний чай. Кіт на ім’я Граф гордо і незворушно лежав на сумках, байдужо дивлячись у вікно, ніби всі два роки життя тільки й робив, що їздив у авто. До села, так до села, аби не забували годувати і частіше гладити.
Раніше на відпустку завжди їхали на море. Чоловік помер рік тому, і в душі ще живе біль втрати, у сина своя родина, інші інтереси, і морем вона наситилась вдосталь. Хочеться побродити по лісу, вдихнути густий аромат сосни, збирати гриби, готувати жарке з білих грибів та солити опеньки з листям смородини, ласувати брусницею та варити з неї варення, пекти ватрушки, пити парне молоко, почути, як жалібно прощаються гуси, що летять на південь, і сказати їм: повертайтеся. Що це, запитувала вона себе, чому так хочеться шльопати босими ногами по чисто вимитій широкій фарбованій підлозі, сидіти на лавочці біля печі з книгою і час від часу ворушити тліючі поліна, хочеться побачити нічне небо, всипане зірками, щоб воно прямо куполом було видно, щоб починалося від самої землі, а не від даху сусіднього багатоповерхівки. Вранці хочеться прокидатися від співу птахів, від звуків природи, а не від шуму машин. Можливо, це втома від міста, від багатолюдних вулиць? Або так буває, коли тобі за 40?
Село заселене, є продуктовий магазинчик, і якщо що, від міста недалеко, всього 15 км. Є ще три тижні відпустки, на календарі вересень.
Іноді приходить думка залишитися в домі на зиму, але ще не впевнена, чи впорається? Настав час прислухатися до себе, дістати потаємні мрії на світ божий і втілити їх у реальність. У всякому разі, якщо стане складно, можна повернутися в будь-який момент.
Граф вийшов з машини, насторожено поглядаючи по боках і притискаючись до ніг, наче вірний собака: трава така висока, у ній можуть ховатися вороги. Він хлопець міський, звик до квартирного життя, а тут якісь зарості, пташки співають, метелики пурхають.
Відчинила двері навстіж, вікна теж, принесла оберемок дров з сараю. Піч двічі невдоволено виплюнула клуби диму в дім, а потім пом’якшилася, заспокоїлась, сухі дрова затріщали, розгорілися. Заодно розтопила стареньку баню, в якій досі пахло березовим віником і сухим соняшником. Навела порядок, засучивши рукави, перекусила бутербродами, намащуючи скибки хрусткого багету насиченим арахісовим маслом і запиваючи чаєм. Граф, підкріпившись шматочком вареної курки, дивився на її клопоти, влаштувавшись у кріслі. А вона раптом, віджимаючи ганчірку для підлоги, впіймала себе на тому, що співає. Слів пісні не пам’ятає, просто муркоче мотив з якогось фільму з Інною Чуриковою. Сама собі здивувалася — давно не співала.
Вересень — місяць збору врожаю в селі: того ж дня вона купила у сусідів овочі, яйця, відро яблук, банку меду і заглянула в місцевий магазинчик.
У бані пахло завареними травами, сріблилася холодна кринична вода в відрах, сердито шипіло розпечене каміння. Жар огортав, окутував, пестив тіло, зігрівав кожну клітинку, і тим приємніше було облитися прохолодною водою. Відпочивала на ґанку, закутавшись у пухнастий махровий халат. В ранніх осінніх сутінках затишно світилося віконце в будинку, собаки пліткували. На небі Бог увімкнув Місяць, випустив прогулятися Велику Ведмедицю з ведмежам, сів у крісло читати вечірню газету, погойдуючи ногою в хутряній тапочці біля теплого каміна. Палаючі дрова час від часу фуркали, іскрилися, а іскри падали на землю. “Дивіться, зірка падає”,— говорили в цей час люди.
Граф знайшов у траві жабу і не знав, що тепер робити. Вечір пахнув фіалкою, стиглою малиною та яблуком.
Поки в старенькій духовці рум’янів капустяний пиріг, вона крупно нарізала великий стиглий помідор, сир і житню булку, відкрила банку з оливками, заварила чай з корицею. Вечеря вийшла пізньою, але смачною.
Зранку вставала рано, йшла в ліс. Дихала, нюхала, усміхалася, розмовляла з дятлом, цікавилася, чи не болить у нього голова, ділилася хлібною скоринкою з білкою. Гриби запікала в сметані, з стиглої брусниці варила варення: з медом, з яблуком, з грушею.
Вересень балував теплими сонячними днями, тихими вечорами, заспокоював, наче відвар пустирника, кликав на кухню варити каву, пекти імбирне печиво на сніданок чи сирний пиріг, обіймав у вечори теплим картатим пледом, грів ноги м’якими вовняними шкарпетками, садовив на ту саму лавочку і подавав у руки улюблену книгу.
Граф, як і раніше, не виявляв бажання знайомитися з місцевими пам’ятками, але з задоволенням виходив увечері на ґанок, щоб помилуватися зоряним небом разом з господинею. Сусід нещодавно скосив траву навколо будинку, і тепер тут пахне кавуном. У скошеній траві шурхотять мишенята, збирають сухі травинки: стара миша зіткне траву в клубки і зв’яже для холодної зими велике тепле покривало, що пахне солодким конюшиною.
В один із днів вибралась на місцевий цвинтар, прибрати на могилках рідних. Біля одного з свіжих горбків лежала собака. Звичайна двірняжка, невелика, худенька, з тужливими очима. Від запропонованого пиріжка відвернулася. Сусіди потім пояснили: померла нещодавно старенька, одинока, от її собака тепер сиротою залишилася, всі дні напроліт там топчеться.
Вона прийшла зранку, сіла поруч із цим втіленням печалі і почала говорити. Про те, що старенькі люди йдуть, і нічого з цим не вдієш, їх не повернеш, як би ми не хотіли. Про те, що вона теж пережила біль втрати близьких людей і розуміє її горе. Тільки є час для смутку, а є для радості. Час для смутку закінчився, пора йти додому і жити далі. Я назву тебе Алькою, казала вона і гладила собаку. Ми будемо приходити сюди, обов’язково будемо, але жити будемо в домі, будемо топити піч, варити кашу, чекати зиму. Ви з котом будете дім охороняти, я — їздити на роботу. Взимку все завалить снігом, ми станемо розчищати доріжки, ліпити снігову бабу, наряджати на Новий рік ялинку, робити годівничку для птахів. Піду, Алька, я дам тобі теплого супу, покрошу туди булку, все буде добре. І собака пішла…
…У листопаді, на підморожену землю випав сніг і вже не розтанув. Сонячних днів в останній місяць осені було мало, але це не заважало їм бути щасливими. Щастя було поруч, тут і зараз, у кожній дрібниці і не залежало від погоди: у чашці чаю, в вазочці з варенням, в калейдоскопі фарб приголомшливих світання, в відтаявшій від горя собаці, що поїдає кашу, у притихлій, засинаючий до весни природі, в згорнутому клубком плюшевому кітсі-сплюшці, навіть у запаху гіркого диму топленої лазні було щастя і в звуках, що набираються у відрі води в колодязі. Не страшні морози і холоди, якщо на душі тепло, а в домі затишно. У кожної людини має бути куточок, де вона знаходить гармонію, де слухає і чує, де може залікувати душевні рани і забути про негаразди. Вона знайшла це місце.
— Мамо, а ти що, в місто жити не переїжджаєш, скоро зима,— питав син по телефону. Я не можу, я Альці обіцяла. Вона ж мені повірила. Ми ще не зліпили снігову бабу. Краще ви приїжджайте до нас на Новий рік, буде чудово. Тут прекрасно! Я лижі на горищі знайшла, дві пари. Рибу запечемо з травами… Вона говорила і усміхалася, а небо над нею було куполом і починалося від самої землі.
Зима готувалася накрити світ пухнатим, товстим покривалом.
The Manor Smelled of French Perfume and Lovelessness. Little Lizzie Knew Only One Pair of Warm Hands—Those of the Housemaid Nora. But One Day Money Went Missing from the Safe, and Those Hands Disappeared Forever. Twenty Years Passed. Now Lizzie Stands at a Doorstep Herself—With a Child in Her Arms and a Truth That Burns in Her Throat… *** The Scent of Dough Was the Scent of Home. Not the grand house with marble staircase and three-tiered chandelier where Lizzie spent her childhood—but a real home. The one she’d dreamed up while sitting on a kitchen stool, watching Nora’s work-worn, red hands knead the elastic dough. “Why does dough breathe?” five-year-old Lizzie would ask. “Because it lives,” Nora would reply, not pausing in her work. “See how it bubbles? It’s happy it’s going into the oven. Odd, isn’t it? Being happy for the fire.” Lizzie hadn’t understood then. But now—she understood. She stood by the edge of a broken country road, clutching four-year-old Michael to her chest. The bus had gone, leaving them in the pale February twilight, surrounded by that particular village silence where you can hear snow crunching under a stranger’s boots three houses away. Michael didn’t cry—he’d almost forgotten how in the last six months. He only watched with solemn, grown-up eyes, and each time Lizzie shivered: Michael’s father’s eyes. His chin. His silence—always hiding something. Don’t think about him. Not now. “Mum, I’m cold.” “I know, darling. We’ll find it soon.” She didn’t know the address. Didn’t even know if Nora was still alive—twenty years had passed, a whole lifetime. All she remembered: “Pinewood Village, Sussex.” And the scent of that dough. And the warmth of those hands—the only ones in the big house that stroked her head just because, for no special reason. The lane led past sagging fences. Here and there, yellow lights glowed in windows—dim, but alive. Lizzie stopped at the last cottage—because her legs couldn’t go any farther, and Michael had become much too heavy. The gate creaked. Two snow-covered steps to the porch. The door—old, warped, paint peeling off. She knocked. Silence. Then—shuffling footsteps. The sound of a bolt sliding back. A voice—cracked, aged, but achingly familiar, making Lizzie’s breath catch: “Who’s out there in the dark at this hour?” The door opened. A tiny old woman in a knitted cardigan over her nightgown stood on the threshold. Her face—like a baked apple, wrinkled a thousand ways. But her eyes—the same. Faded, blue, still alive. “Nora…” The old woman froze. Then slowly raised the same hardworking, knotty hand to Lizzie’s cheek. “Oh, my word… Lizzie?” Lizzie’s knees buckled. She stood, clutching her son, unable to utter a word—only tears running hot down her cold cheeks. Nora asked nothing. Not “where from?”, not “why?”, not “what happened?”. She simply took her old coat, hanging on a nail by the door, and wrapped it around Lizzie’s shoulders. Then gently lifted Michael—who didn’t even flinch, just watched with those dark eyes—and held him close. “There now, you’re home, my little sparrow,” she said. “Come in. Come in, love.”
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Is the Orchid Really to Blame? “Polly, take this orchid or I’m throwing it out,” Kate said, carelessly picking up the clear pot from the windowsill and handing it to me. “Thanks, Kate! But what’s wrong with this orchid?” I was surprised. After all, three more gorgeous, well-tended orchids stood in her window. “It was a wedding gift for my son. And you know how that all ended,” Kate sighed heavily. “I know your Denis got divorced before their first anniversary. I won’t ask why—I bet it was a serious reason. Denis adored Tanya,” I said gently, not wanting to reopen a fresh wound. “I’ll tell you the full story one day, Polly. For now, it’s just too much,” Kate said, getting a bit teary. I brought the “banished” and “rejected” orchid home. My husband looked sympathetically at the wilting plant. “Why do you want that poor thing? There’s no life in it. Even I can see that. Don’t waste your time,” he insisted. “I want to revive it. Give it some love and care. You’ll see—soon you’ll be impressed by this orchid!” I replied, determined to breathe life back into the drooping flower. He winked playfully: “Who ever turns down a bit of love?” A week later, Kate called: “Polly, can I come over? I can’t keep this bottled up anymore. I want to tell you everything about Denis’s failed marriage.” “Of course, Kate. I’m here whenever you need me,” I assured her—remembering how she’d supported me through two rocky marriages of my own… After all, we’d been friends for years. Kate arrived within the hour, settled in the kitchen, and for hours, over a glass of dry wine, a mug of coffee, and some dark chocolate, she shared the whole, tangled tale. “I never imagined my ex-daughter-in-law was capable of such things. Denis and Tanya were together for seven years. Denis left Annie—who I adored, by the way—for Tanya, who was just stunning. He was absolutely besotted, following her around like a lovesick puppy. Tanya looked like a model—men couldn’t help but stare. But for all those years, they never had a child. I figured Denis wanted everything by the book—get married, then have kids. Denis is private, and we never pried. Finally, Denis told us: ‘Mum, Dad, I’m marrying Tanya. We’ve booked the registry office. I’m throwing a huge wedding—no expense spared.’ He was thirty. We were thrilled that he’d finally settle down. But, Polly, the wedding date had to be postponed twice—once Denis got sick, then I was held up at work. It felt odd, but Denis was glowing with happiness—I didn’t say anything. Denis even wanted to have a church wedding with Father Christopher, but the priest was called back to his home parish. Nothing was going smoothly. It seemed like the world was warning us… The wedding was spectacular, noisy, extravagant. Here—look at the wedding photo. You see that orchid? Glorious, in full bloom. Its leaves stood tall like soldiers. And now? Just limp rags remain of it. …Denis and Tanya planned their honeymoon in Paris, but right at the airport, Tanya was barred from leaving the country—something about an unpaid fine. Denis swatted away these troubles like flies. …But then Denis got seriously ill. Ended up in hospital, things looked grim. Doctors were at a loss. Tanya visited for a week, then bluntly told him: ‘Sorry, but I can’t handle being married to an invalid. I’m filing for divorce.’ Polly, imagine my son—bedridden—hearing that. But he only said: ‘I understand, Tanya. I won’t fight you.’ So they divorced. But Denis got better—thanks to a wonderful doctor named Peter. And Peter had a lovely 20-year-old daughter, Mary. At first, Denis turned up his nose: ‘She’s just a slip of a girl—not even pretty.’ ‘Give her a chance, son. Looks aren’t everything. You’ve already had a model for a wife…Better to be happy drinking water together than sipping honey in sorrow.’ …Time passed. Mary totally fell for Denis—called all the time, trailed after him everywhere. So we tried nudging them together—day at the park, barbecue, campfire. Denis looked miserable, barely noticing Mary’s devotion. I told my husband: ‘It’s hopeless. Denis is still obsessed with Tanya. She’s a thorn in his heart.’ …Three or four months later—ding dong! It’s Denis, holding that infamous orchid. ‘Here you go, Mum—remnants of past happiness. Do as you like with it—I’m done with it.’ I took it reluctantly and basically ignored it, blaming the poor flower for my son’s heartbreak. One day, a neighbour says: ‘Kate, I saw Denis with that petite girl. His ex-wife was more glamorous, for sure.’ But then Denis announced, hand-in-hand with Mary: ‘Meet my wife—Mary. We got married quietly at the registry office, then Father Christopher married us in church. Mum, Dad, no big fuss this time! It’s forever now.’ I pulled him aside: ‘Denis, are you sure you love her? Is this for revenge against Tanya?’ ‘No, Mum. I’m over it. That woman is my past—I’m done even saying her name. Mary and I are right for each other.’ And that’s the tale, Polly. Kate finished her story, right down to the last detail. …Two years passed. Life swept us along. But the orchid? It flourished again—blooming beautifully after care and love. Flowers know how to say thank you. I met Kate at the hospital maternity ward: ‘Hi, mate! What brings you here?’ ‘Mary just had twins—being discharged today!’ Kate beamed. Denis and his dad hovered nearby, Denis clutching red roses. Out came exhausted but glowing Mary, with two sleeping bundles in tow. Then came my daughter, holding my own new granddaughter. Meanwhile, Tanya was begging Denis for forgiveness and a fresh start. …But glue a broken teacup, and no one really wants to drink from it…
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Raw Nerves: In This Family, Everyone Lived Their Own Separate Lives. Dad, Alexander, Had Not Just a Wife but a String of Lovers. Mum, Jenny, Turned a Blind Eye, but She Had Her Own Secret Romance with a Married Colleague. Their Two Sons Were Left to Fend for Themselves. Nobody Really Raised Them, So They Wasted Days Wandering Aimlessly. Jenny Claimed the School Was Responsible for Their Upbringing. On Sundays, the Family Would Gather in Silence Round the Kitchen Table, Wolf Down Lunch, and Disperse to Their Separate Interests. They Might Have Continued in Their Broken, Flawed but Comfortably Familiar Existence—Until Irreversible Tragedy Struck. When the Younger Son, Daniel, Was Twelve, Alexander First Took Him to the Garage as His Little Helper. While Daniel Curiously Inspected the Tools, Alexander Stepped Next Door to Chat with Fellow Car Enthusiasts. Suddenly, Black Smoke and Flames Billowed from Alexander’s Garage. (Later, It Would Emerge that Daniel Had Accidentally Knocked a Lit Blowtorch onto a Can of Petrol.) Nobody Understood What Had Happened. People Were Frozen, Panicking, as Fire Raged. Water Was Thrown Over Alexander, and He Bolted into the Inferno. In Moments, He Emerged, Carrying His Motionless Son, Daniel’s Body a Mass of Burns—Only His Face, Shielded by His Hands, Remained Unscathed; His Clothes Were Completely Burned Away. Someone Had Already Called the Fire Brigade and Ambulance. Daniel Was Rushed to Hospital—He Was Alive! He Was Taken Straight to Surgery. After Agonising Hours, the Surgeon Came Out to Daniel’s Parents and Said, “We’re Doing All We Can. Your Son Is in a Coma. His Chances Are One in a Million. Science Is Powerless. Only Extraordinary Willpower—and a Miracle—Can Save Him Now.” Desperate, Alexander and Jenny Raced to the Nearest Church—in a Torrential Downpour. Drenched and Sobbing, They Entered the Sanctuary for the First Time in Their Lives, Begging the Priest, Father George, for Help. “…How grave are your sins?” Father George asked. Alexander, sheepish, replied, “Not murderers, if that’s what you mean…” “But where is your love? Dead underfoot,” the priest reproached. “There’s more space between you than a fallen oak log. Pray to Saint Nicholas for your son’s health—pray fiercely! But remember, it’s God’s will…” At the icon, Alexander and Jenny knelt, weeping and praying passionately—swearing to cut all affairs, vowing to change their lives. The next morning, the phone rang. The doctor reported Daniel was out of his coma. Alexander and Jenny never left his bedside. Daniel whispered to his parents, “Mum, Dad, promise me you’ll stay together,” and, “When I have children, they’ll have your names…” His parents thought he was delirious—after all, he couldn’t even move his finger. But Daniel began to recover. The family’s energy and savings—and even their summer cottage—went into his treatment. The garage and car had burned to ashes, but the main thing was: Daniel was alive. The grandparents pitched in to help, and the family came together through the crisis. A year on, Daniel was in a rehabilitation centre, able to walk and look after himself. He befriended Mary, a girl his own age who’d also been burned in a fire—her face badly scarred after multiple operations, too shy to look in a mirror. Daniel was drawn to her kindness, wisdom, and vulnerability. The two became inseparably close, bonding over pain, recovery, and endless conversation. Time passed… Daniel and Mary celebrated a modest wedding. They had two beautiful children: daughter Alexandra, then three years later, son John. At last, the family could breathe easy. But the ordeal had left Alexander and Jenny drained. They decided to part ways, both craving peace and relief from each other. Jenny moved to stay with her sister in the suburbs, visiting Father George before leaving—he, now a confidant, urged her not to go for long; “A husband and wife are one.” Alexander remained alone in the empty flat, sons with families of their own. Visiting grandchildren was done separately, timings carefully coordinated to avoid crossing paths. And so, after all they’d suffered, every member of the family finally found their own, peculiar peace…
CUT TO THE QUICK… In this family, everyone lived their own separate lives. Jack, the father, in addition to his...